


And to Think That It Started On Montague Street

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Double-O-Seven secret agents., First Meetings, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 13:39:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6857269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just me playing again with possible first meetings and first engagement. My familiar tendency to think of more and more ways those two could have started a relationship. </p><p>Have fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And to Think That It Started On Montague Street

Later Lestrade would say that it all started on Montegue Street. He was correct--but the beginning of the beginning happened in Southwark, in a little local frequented by a "rough clientele" as they liked to put in in the Victorian era. Lestrade had been the first to catch the odd pattern among the sport-crazy community in the little London pub known commonly as the Fartin’ Tart…a name that arose from its unfortunate signage, which was intended to indicate an elegant lady. A rather excessive use of calligraphic  curlicues to frame the figure, however, had led to the appearance of high winds near the woman’s nethers, ensuring the Lady in Waiting would be better known by the more vulgar epithet.

The Tart was a grubby, unassuming place south of the Thames in territory held by old Cockney gangs not yet pushed out of the way by any of the newer gangs. White territory held by slick men in bespoke suits that were too flash for Whitehall, and too poncy for chav turf; held by skin-heads with tattoos—some from prison, some from fashion and loyalties; held by blue-eyed blondes whose aitches were more honored in the absence than in the presence.

Greg had a place there. He’d dress in a worn jumper and jeans and his leather biker’s jacket, lace his feet into the massive, steel-toed boots of a construction worker, and shoulder his way through the crowd up to the bar. He had the way of it: the easy lean, the eyes fixed on the telly watching the game, the pint nursed slowly through the evening, the occasional excited bet. His own people were from Somerset, but from the same rough class as the men and women in the pub, and he knew how to settle himself into that role without a second’s hesitation.

His MI5 handler said he had the fine art of blokery down cold. He knew how to pass as everyone’s mate…and for the longest time that was sufficient. Then the night came when he saw Ira Kalliher and Seb Matthias huddled in a corner frowning over a shared tablet computer and muttering to each other with an intensity that, in the Tart, meant either a hotly contested debate over respective footie teams—or trouble in the territory. Or, occasionally, both, as betting issues could have profound repercussions among the interlocking families of Southwark. Lives rose and fell on the placing of a bet and the ties of loyalty to a team.

Lestrade knew how to watch, and listen, without being noticed. He worked his dark art, joking with the other customers, playing darts, letting others talk him into a round of pool. Like many pubs, the Tart was too small to house a proper snooker table, but made sure to have two pool tables available for play in a room to one side of the main room—a room added to the Tart’s dimensions by cutting through the adjoining brick walls of the Tart and its neighbor and taking over the available space.

It took weeks for Lestrade to determine there was trouble of a darker sort being planned among the old families. More weeks before he determined that he was not going to be easily invited in to learn the details. Only then did he insert a request for help into the reports he sent back to MI5 regularly.

“The little I have managed to overhear suggest a nativist push against the incoming Muslim communities. We've got enough problems with Muslim terrorism without mixing it up with the Little Britain idjits. We’ve got to learn more and cut this off before it gains much traction. I can’t think of a worse move to reduce terrorism in the nation than for the skin-heads to take on Islam. They’d each end up being the dream recruitment tool for the other, and it would be harder to put down than Belfast ever was. I am not going to be a first choice, though: I’ve got a rep as a simple, honest bloke with no odd twists…trusted, but not encouraged. You need to send in someone who can swim with the clever lads and not seem out of place.”

Lestrade even offered his help slipping the man into the community of the Tart. He asked for information, but got the brush off—his handler saying they’d tell him if and when they could, but to be ready for anything.

He was used to that sort of dodge, though. Too much knowledge could trip an agent up. Often it was better not to know some things, leaving to question of a convincing performance. Lestrade sighed, and congratulated himself that at least they were listening to him, and kept to his routine, playing good old Nige Morgan, who did pick-up building work, mostly in the suburbs, but came back home to be near his girl.

Then a night came when a voice near his shoulder proclaimed in loud surprise, “Nige! Bloody hell, is that you? Slap me silly, I never thought to see you down ‘ere.”

He swung around, frowning, trying to place the voice and face and drawing a complete blank. The man greeting him was tall—not towering, but a good two inches over Lestrade’s own 5’11”. He was ginger-haired, with a too-clever face and pleasantly brownie-ish features: wide mouth, long, beaky nose, high brow, and a jaw that was shallow, but ended in a sharp chin. He was dressed much like the men Lestrade spied on—bespoke, but over the top. Too loud, too exaggerated, too dressy. It was a peculiar sort of look you found in peculiar sorts of society—societies attempting to claim authority similar to that of the toffs—but less dignified. Less controlled. Clothes like this man wore were commonly worn by a particular sort of fellow—a hard man, but one who had not used his own fists, or drawn his own knife, or fired his own weapon for years. Men who dressed like this man wore suits like this man wore, and gave orders involving fists and knives and guns to lesser men.

Lestrade opened his mouth, shut it, then said, uneasily, “Oi!  Been dog’s years since I last saw you, mate. What—back in…?” He let the implied question hang in the air, leaving room for the stranger to fill in the details. Even as he did, it occurred to him who this had to be…and that leaving him to run the event was for the best.

The ginger smiled a smile that would do Mack the Knife proud: all shark teeth and narrowed eyes. “Goin’ on a decade, lad. In Manchester. Last I saw you, you owed me a round hunnerd pounds on the dogs.”

“I never did,” Lestrade snapped back—if only to protect his own cover. “I ain’t never played the dogs in my life, not with you or no man. Footie’s my downfall. That and a shot at the ponies sometimes. I leave the dog track be.”

Ginger narrowed his eyes, and studied him, as though sizing him up. He shrugged, then, an artful, obviously false movement. “Eh—memory fails us all. Perhaps I’m wrong about the bet—but I’m right about you. Never forget a face. Manchester.”

“I ain’t never been in Manchester ‘cept back in ’06,” Lestrade said, warily—a man who would not lie, but who feared someone making a false claim on his wallet. “And I wasn’t betting at the time, barring a couple on the World Cup. Dropped out after England fell out of the running.”

“Ah, that will be it, then,” the ginger said. “No doubt I mistook you for someone else.” He smiled more brightly, all glittering teeth and self-confidence. “I daresay I’d figure it out if I went over my books from the time. Muddled your face with some other blokes, maybe. Or…” He let his voice drop, then shrugged too cheerfully. “Still…I never forget a debtor, I swear it.”

“Warn’t me,” Lestrade grumbled. “No one ever said Nige Morgan left a debt unpaid.”

The man smiled—all political conciliation. “No, no. Daresay it was another Morgan. Tell you what, let me buy you a pint and play you a round of pool to make up for the error.”

Lestrade glowered, and hesitated—just as Nige Morgan would, had there ever been a real Nige Morgan. He studied the too-sharp clothing, the black and white wingtip oxfords, the sharp lapels of the suit. He breathed out warily. “Aye, well, thank you and all, and I’ll accept,:” he said, allowing reluctance to edge out good will. He let his eyes linger on the back of the ginger as he bellied up to the bar and ordered two pints. He took his when the other man returned, and followed him into the pool room.

They played a round. The stranger won, and offered to play another round to give “Nige” revenge. AS there was no money riding on it, Lestrade did as Nige would, and agreed. After the second round the ginger shook his hand and left.

Lestrade humphed, and watched him leave.

He was not surprised when, minutes later, one of the lesser lights of the families showed up at his elbow.

“Oi, Nige,” the lad said, brightly, “Who’s your mate, then, eh?”

Lestrade, still in character, gave a frustrated laugh. “Damn if I know for sure, Len. I mean, I’m sure I knew ‘im back in Manchester, when I did a job up there. Back in ’06, it were. Probably the bookie I used to bet on the World Cup, like as not. He knows me, that’s sure, and ‘e almost fits my memory. But—ten years and all, and I never have been much of a betting man. Alls I can say is the man I bet with then paid out fair and square, but was figured to be too clever by half by some folks. Can’t recall his name to save my life…and it’s embarrassing as hell that he knew mine.” He shrugged, a big, bluff movemen, all humble dismay. “You know how it is: you keep trying to place their name, and damned if you can find it—and then it’s too late to ask.”

“Aye,” the lad said, smiling. “’At’s all right, Nige. Just good to know. Wonder what a Manchester lad’s doing down south.”

Lestrade, who would not have placed the man as having a northern accent, shrugged and cut a bit of space for him in future, saying, “Don’t think he was a born Mancunian. Southern boy, more like. Maybe come home? Prodigal son returneth and the like?” He pitched the remainder of his most recent pint down the back of his throat, and gave a gusty sigh. “I dunno. I can almost bring it back, but not quite. But I remember enough—and he’s generous about buyin’ a pint, and he plays pool like the very devil. Happy enough to see him around again, if it happens so.”

The lad smiled, and nodded. “Always nice to have one more in the place to pick up a round,” he said. “If I learn anything more, you want me to tell you?”

“Yeah, sure. Like his name, mebbe? Bit of a red face I had over that. But if it turns out I do owe him, don’t tell me. Seems to me he might not want to bother if he’s got to try to tap me again—and I can’t afford a hundred for a bet I can’t recall making.”

The lad nodded and retreated, and Lestrade remained at the bar, drinking one more pint before leaving with a cheeky whistle. He felt quite good about his night’s work. It never did to be too pat—too on the nose. Years later he’d congratulate himself quietly when Sherlock Holmes pronounced that only lies were filled with detail. Of course, the lad never gave Lestrade or his elder brother credit—but he should have. He’d learned that truth sitting at the feet of two masters of fragmentary non-detailed lies. If either had been quite “right” about anything they’d said or claimed that night, the heads of the families would never have believed any of it. As it was, neither of them had shown all that well. Instead they read as exactly what they wanted to be: two men not quite foreign to each other, meeting after long separation in a bar far from their old stamping grounds. Neither with quite coherent memories. Neither quite sure what they did or did not recall—but each recalling just enough to fill in a plausible background sketch that made sense. Each offering just enough to provoke the families to research and investigate along lines chosen in advance by MI5…or similar parties.

Lestrade was completely unsurprised to see nothing more of the ginger fellow that evening or for several weeks after. He heard about him—as in, “Oi, Nige! Your carrot-top lad was in ‘tother night and fleeced Hopkins at Trivia!”

“T’ain’t my lad,” Lestrade hollered back. “He still hangin’ about here?”

“In a time or two,” the barkeep said, already pulling Lestrade a pint. “This one’s on him, by the way. He put down a fiver and told me to draw you a long one. Says he was wrong about you owin’ him. Says it was someone called ‘Benny Lomax.’ Mean anything to you?”

“Big Polish fella I used to work with,” Lestrade said, grinning. “Looked a bit like me, if you add a couple stone, though. Wonder what happened to Benny?” He accepted the drink, and said, warily, “Any chance Ginge gave you a name of ‘is own?”

“Mike,” the barkeep said. “Mike Sharp.”

Lestrade gave a convincing grunt of recognition, and swore cheerfully. “Sonofabitch. That’s right. Mike Sharp. Don’t think I’ve thought about him twice since I came back from Manchester, till now.”

“No surprise. Clever enough, and ‘e stands out, but once you’ve walked away, you don’t look back.”

Lestrade drank his beer, tucked the new name into his memory—Mike Sharp—and ambled on over to the darts board, where he soon drummed up a few rounds. He went home early, feeling pleased at how well the fellow MI5 had sent along was doing. The man knew the skills, knew how to play a role, knew not to say too much. And if MI5 was doing its job, there was a lovely background just waiting for the family’s research chaps to unearth—something just difficult to make them feel clever following it. Something with a stink that would make them think they had just a bit of control over Ginger Mike. Something that they’d believe in completely because they’d dug it up, rather than being handed it.

The next time he saw Ginger Mike was at the corner of the street, approaching the pub from the far end of the sidewalk. He walked with a cocky assurance, hands in his pockets, black-and-white oxfords flashing with each step. He was in another flash suit—a gangster suit. A suit well chosen for a bad fellow. The stripes were too noticeable, almost making one think of the old prison broad arrow. The lapels were too wide and too pointy. The tie was bold.

“Oi, Mike—Whotcha?”

Ginger looked up, surprised and jumpy. “Bugger. Scare a man, why don’t you? Took a year off my life, lad.”

“Sorry,” Lestrade grinned, not apologetic in the least. “Wool-gathering, you were. Mind gone entire.”

“Aye, well,” Ginger Mike said, “a man has to think, sometimes.”

“Trouble?”

“Not so much. Just the usual set-up costs,” Ginger Mike said. “A bookie needs capital like nobody’s business. Can’t afford for the customers to get too lucky the first few months unless you’ve got a nest egg, if you catch my meaning.”

“Can’t help you there,” Lestrade said. “Work’s hard come-by, and thanks to the fuckin’ Tories the pay’s for shit. What I do make goes to my girl, like as not.”

Ginger Mike sighed, and looked cannily over at Lestrade. “That hundred I thought you owed me would be a bit of a help. Not much, mind you—but every bit adds to the kitty.”

Lestrade gave a dry, sardonic chuckle. “I’ll let you know if I see Benny Lomax,” he said. “But not before I let Benny know I saw you. Still, I wish you luck. You tried talking to the old chaps? You know—the fellies at the back o’ th’ Tart of a Sunday afternoon?”

Ginge’s eyes narrowed. “You got friends among the families?” The words weighted it heavily.

Lestrade shrugged. “Not so you’d call ‘em ‘friends,’ exactly. Enough to know who to ask, and what to ask for. You ever worked with their like?”

Ginger nodded, and gazed with cat-like dispassion over the street. “Time and again, maybe. Prefer to work for myself, but I’ll do a job for the old fellows once in a while. You in a position to introduce me?”

“I can do that much,” Lestrade allowed.

Both men, of course, were aware of the fellows sitting only a few feet away at the little outdoor tables that went with Tart. Neither made any effort to speak silently. And both then went in together to find the “old gents” of the families, who made plans.

Lestrade took the lead, approaching the two booths at the very back of the room, where the families “kept their business address.” He nodded to Ira Kalliher and Seb Matthias, saying, “Ta, Mr. Kalliher. Mind if me an’ my friend here offer you and Mr. Matthias a pint?”

Kalliher, in his sixties, looked at Matthias, who was in his fifties. They had an entire silent conversation in one long, impassive gaze. Then Kalliher nodded. “Pints are never unwelcome, nor lads who come bearing them. Would you like to join us, then, Nige—you an’ your friend?”

“Mike,” Ginge said. “Mike Sharp.”

Kalliher met his eyes—cold blue meeting cold blue. “Live up to your name, Mr. Sharp? Clever, you? Maybe a bit too sharp for your own good?”

Ginge shrugged and smiled—the Mack the Knife smile he’d offered when he first bumped into Lestrade. “Sharp enough to know when to fetch the pints,” he said. “What’s your poison, Mr. Kalliher?”

“Guinness, like any good Irishman,” Kalliher said. Then Seb ordered an IPA and Lestrade said, “My usual—barkeep will know what I like.”

Sharp nodded and was gone.

“Didn’t think you and that tall drink of ginger beer were all that close,” Kalliher said, as Lestrade settled into the booth, bum as near the aisle as he could get, making sure not to infringe on the older man’s territory.

“Not all that close,” Lestrade said. “But he’s in need of capital, and even I know you’re were he needs to go to get some. He’s opening as a bookie, and even if he’s licensed I don’t think he’s going to be quite so straight as some might like. Need a bankroll.”

Kalliher nodded, and thought. “He good at the game?”

Lestrade shrugged. “Was good a decade ago in Manchester,” he said. “Or appeared to be. Can’t say I cared much—I placed a bet, I got a payback or didn’t. Never caught him cheating or heard from anyone else he did.”

Lestrade knew that MI5 would have already dropped a chain of evidence one way or another for the families to find. It didn’t even matter if what he said matched what they found—all that mattered was that he say what any man would say of an old bookie who’d never done wrong by anyone.  “But it’s up to you,” he added. “I just thought I’d introduce him. After that—it’s up to him to make his case.”

“You want to stay and do the dicker?”

Lestrade shook his head—again, quite in character for good old Nige. Men like Nige stayed out of complicated jobs, even as they kept their mouths shut about the people who offered such jobs. Big mouths got in trouble. Silence, on the other hand, was golden. “Don’t think so, thanks though. No talent for it, and no real interest in Mike’s gig. Thank you kindly, and I think I’ll take up my pint and go shoot darts.”

Which he did, not even looking back at the three men in the booth.

He got word mid-week from his handler that all was going well…and to continue as he had if he crossed paths with Ginger Mike again.

Lestrade nodded, and asked no questions. Ginger Mike was in action. Lestrade was just an embedded witness.

He watched, though…not too closely, not at all obviously, but with all his nerves on alert.

It was a pleasure to observe Ginger Mike at work, he thought—and a matter of some pride that he’d spent years reporting back the details that allowed Ginger Mike to play two old, clever men like Kalliher and Matthias…and play them he did. In a matter of weeks he moved from a man who owed favors to the old men, to a man to whom the old men owed favors. He took the capital they lent him and turned it around, weighing his bets so nicely that it was no wonder he was making a profit. He paid out fair and square, and if he took bets under the table on competitions no one was supposed to know about—the roosters, the dog fights, the Iron Man fisticuffs—he didn’t seem to get involved in their actual business. His hands stayed remarkably clean. He paid off his debt in record time—and even when the money was covered, he continued in the old men’s good graces, buying them pints, murmuring things overheard, slipping little pages of notes, tight-folded to hide under the curve of a palm. He became a trusted man. A useful man with a sense of what kind of knowledge was valuable, and what was not.

He and Lestrade bumped shoulders—never close friends, never strangers. They shot pool on occasion. They played darts. They bought each other the odd round. No one would ever mistake them for best mates, but no one ever felt inclined to question it when they did spend the odd hour together. As often as not it was clear to any outsider that Ginger Mike was interrogating Nige cleverly, picking information out of his brain and the big old ox none the wiser. That Ginge, people thought, was clever. Perhaps a bit too clever for his own good—but no doubt quite useful to the old fellows in the booth at the back of the Tart.

Other times Ginger Mike was with the lieutenants of the families—the good white men in their nice suits.

Other times still he was with the skin-heads, an odd match that could best be explained by the round of darts being shot, or the game of pool Ginger Mike hustled them into. And, yet, the young men trusted Ginger Mike... They’d lean around the pool room, their girls straddling their knees, the music set to break your ear drums, and they’d talk to Mike when they’d seldom talk to anyone. Like under that sharp suit he was one of theirs.

With them he’d take off his trim, wide-shouldered jacket, leaving on the tight waistcoat below. He’d roll up the sleeves of his shirt, take off his tie, unbutton the top buttons of his collar, and play pool, suddenly sexy and dangerous in this stripped down costume. For all he was a tad plump, he was built well—round bum the girls ogled. Long legs in loose-cut, swinging trousers. Neat torso shown off by the tight, tight cling of the waistcoat. Lestrade, watching on occasion, noted the dark gleam of one girl’s eyes one night, as she watched the light shine on the satin backing of the waistcoat, creating gleaming hills of Ginger’s shoulders and a long, dark valley along his spine. He could see her fingers rub together, longing to touch, to trace, to seduce.

Lestrade shivered and drank his pint, sharing her desire and uneasy at the knowledge. He was not ashamed of what he was…but his life was complicated already, and his body’s reactions were at odds with the role Nige played in this little pub. And Greg Lestrade had a wife—if not a happy wife, or a happy marriage.

Something inside—deep in his heart—whispered, “Tit for tat,” and “Sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander…”

The clever copper and the cleverer undercover agent hissed “No,” back at his interior traitor. Never invite danger—not like that. Think with the brains…the other head’s no good at the game.

He ordered another pint that night, and walked away just drunk enough to feel sorry for himself—sorrier when, having taken the necessary switchbacks and taxis to lose followers, he arrived at his flat to find it empty.

Sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander, the voice whispered again, and he suffered a sudden aching desire to know what it would feel like to press Ginger Mike against a wall, rock against his long, slim thigh, press slow kisses on his mouth…

He couldn’t tell—could not decide. His gaydar failed entirely considering Ginger Mike. He could be straight, or gay, or one of those slightly arch, slightly prissy people whose intelligence whispered at knowledge of things the normal ran from…without ever confirming the knowledge or its actual nature.

The temptation was fierce that night—a knot in his groin, an ache in his gut, tears pricking behind his eyelids. Lestrade had one thing in common with “Nige.” He was a good man for company. He liked people. He was that rare thing—a true introvert who nonetheless enjoyed intimacy…even the intimacy of the crowd. And, yet—year by year he felt more alone. If it wasn’t his wife betraying him, it was the loneliness of the copper—the detective. Or the rise in rank as he came to lead his own investigative team. Or the greater loneliness of the undercover operative for MI5, out in the world alone, reporting back.

He dreamed sometimes of being a space probe, like _Voyager_ , shot off planet to explore. At first he was near the planet, still buried in radio waves, still warm from the sun’s light. But he went deeper and deeper, farther and farther, shouting out his set message to infinity ahead of him, shouting out what he saw to the planet behind him. Mars. Jupiter. Saturn. Uranus. Neptune. Pluto.  On and on, farther and farther, with fewer and fewer messages coming out to him…

Alone.

He woke in a muck-sweat, and reached for the wife who wasn’t there.

On the days following the dreams he clung to his Met team, finding a treasure in each officer: sarky, insecure Anderson, stroppy, funny Donovan, patient Gregson, admirable constable Jeffries…

The Met was uneasy, too, though. Too many dead showing up lately. A “black boy” of Jamaican descent found beaten to death in Lambeth, close to the boundary between that district and Southwark. An Islamic girl raped, and witnesses on each side claiming the rapists had been Islamic—or skin-heads. No telling who’d done the deed, and the girl was killed days after in what might have been an honor killing, or might have been a skin-head wiping out the only witness.

The street informers were muttering about trouble—race trouble—and staying in their own safe neighborhoods—or as far from claimed turf as possible. Lestrade heard that the formal anti-terrorism division of the Met was worried, sending word to MI5 and MI6 of trouble on the wind and threats made in broad daylight. It scared him to the core to think how likely it was that he and Ginger Mike were the primary agents on site, trying to turn the storm.

He wondered if Ginger Mike carried a gun. He knew he didn’t.

The next time he saw the other agent was weeks later. Bodies found in skips later. Wife returned and disappeared again later. All the ways of marking time had spooled out months, and Ginger Mike become as much a fantasy haunting Lestrade’s libido as a real contact. He jumped when he saw him, a bit guilty, a bit aroused. The man was in the pool room again, striding around the table, beautiful, commanding, at ease, surrounded by a court of both skin-heads and family men. A dark-eyed little girl with Celtic features and freckles hung heavily against a chair, watching him with a hunger Lestrade recognized—the hunger of the powerless woman for a powerful man. In the Met he was not supposed to notice it happened, not comment on it for fear of offending the strong, deadly Donovans of the world. Here, in Southwark, he could not help but notice it—the women who saw no way out of poverty and helplessness but to be brought under some man’s protection. Here was this little girl—she had to be no more than eighteen, if that—watching Ginger Mike with an avid need that blended life-terror and sexual desire. He could almost hear her mind screaming that at last life had cast up a possible protector she would not mind bedding—would not fear bedding. Necessity made palatable by control and grace and good looks.

He felt a flash of jealousy—much like that he felt when he realized his wife was once more in the wind, searching for her own satisfaction. The girl could hunger for what he could only deny.

“Cheri’s got a thing for ‘im, yeah?” The barkeep’s voice in his ear, making him jump again.

Lestrade scowled and grumbled “It’s not right,” hoping to cover his own complicated reaction with a more predictable envy over Ginger Mike’s conquest. “What is it with birds? Good man makes a pass, they’d as soon spit on him. Put on a nice suit and stick your nose in the air, and they’re on it like bitches in heat.”

The barkeep studied him with narrowed eyes. Then he shrugged. “Cheri’s got a thing for a suit,” he said. “Me, though—I think Ginge is a bit…” he smirked, and gave a quick, fleeting limp-wristed gesture. “Not that you heard it from me,” he added, quickly. “He might as well be a monk from what I can see.” But he smirked the smirk of a straight man who’s sure he’s IDed a covert faggot—and outted him to a sympathetic audience. The malice was small, and bitchy, and based on beating the poof at his own covert game—but it was no less real for all that.

Lestrade felt a prickle over his body that was sexual in its own right—the reaction to too many conflicting visions of Ginger Mike—straight, gay, hunted by vixens, outed by boors. Ginger Mike who danced cleverly through it all, hair gleaming under the overhead lamp, waistcoat showing off trim waist and neat hips and a bum as appealing to a man as to a woman…

Clever Mike.

Dangerous Mike.

And, in that second, for the first time—Lestrade’s Mike.

He settled against the far side of the bar, where he could keep watch on the game under way in the pool room. It was Mike against one of the old fellows—not Kalliher or Matthias, but one of their ranking officers. Mike’s opponent was a bull of a man—a golden, tawny bull, wheat-blond hair going silver as he aged. He had the build of a man of seniority—the shoulder roll, the thicker neck, the deep chest that came only with maturity. He was comfortable at the table, too—his big hands handled the cue with ease and grace. He paced the perimeter, taking his shots, arms so long he seldom needed the spider or any of the other bridging tools. He just leaned out, long and massive, and set one hand as bridge and the other gave the cue a push, and the balls went tumbling where he aimed them.

Apparently he and Ginger Mike had set some criteria for the game to complicate matters, because it became clear the game would not end when the table was cleared, and the balls would not be scored as Lestrade would expect. That was not so unusual—a game with a skilled player could quickly turn into a one-sided match as the first player simply shut the second out of getting a shot. If both were skilled, either had a faint beginning chance to grab control of the table—and once one had it was all over. Many chose to add complexity and rounds to make the game more interesting.

Ginger Mike danced beside the other player with a delicate yet virile assurance—a tom cat dancing at the hooves of a golden bull, both avatars of the sun. He took his shots, murmuring softly.

Cheri, watching, quivered with anticipation. When he approached one impossible shot and turned it into a showman’s prize turn, she squealed and leapt up clapping, then tried to throw herself at him for a hug.

Somehow he blocked with his cue, the motion seeming innocent—the distaste on his face less innocent. He blinked—a feline expression so aloof, so alien that Lestrade shivered a bit, even as he mentally congratulated the other man, gleefully witnessing the little vixen’s loss. No better than she should be…

And Ginger Mike quick on his feet and well aware of all who hunted him.

Maybe not all, Lestrade thought, softly. So softly…

He imagined a quick, fluttering stroke—his fingers slipping under Mike’s palm, teasing across the deep well of his palm, hinting at wickedness, suggesting further contact. He licked his lips, and turned away, forcing himself to observe the rest of the pub.

Kalliher and Matthais were in their usual places…and with them were two of the older men of the skin heads. They leaned together, murmuring, pints ignored…everything ignored in their absorption with their conversation.

The loos were well away from the booths. There was nothing against that wall of the pub that justified approaching the tables to try to listen in. He did manage to catch Matthias’ eye once, and lift his pint in salute—but was unsurprised when the visual contact failed to lead to an invitation to join them. Instead Matthias shook his head in warning, even as he lifted his pint in mild returned-salute.

Lestrade nodded, and dropped back into apparent mild apathy, watching the game on the telly, afraid to pay too close attention to Ginger Mike and his opponent, or to Kalliher and Matthias and the skin-heads. Either was too dangerous tonight.

He closed his eyes, mind caught between conflicting, equally provoking sexual images—or complementary. He wasn’t sure. He imagined Ginger Mike’s sleek flanks, little Cheri in a samba dress, riding her partner’s thigh, draped across his comparatively narrow chest, but clinging to strong shoulders. They’d make a pretty dance couple…and to Lestrade, who liked both bodies, a painfully alluring one.

He’d been alone too long, he thought. And there were too few things he dared study too closely tonight—tonight, when the Tart felt like a wired explosive waiting to be detonated. Nothing was easy. Nothing was comfortable—and he didn’t think it was just him and his nerves and his libido and his loneliness. Trouble was here—beside him. In the pub, in the eyes of the people in the pool room, back in the booths where the old fellows made plans with the young ones.

Fingers stroked over Lestrade’s knuckles and he jumped yet again, nearly overturning his pint. He looked up, panicked, to meet the eyes of the barkeep, who grinned an uneasy apology.

“Sorry. Sorry. Got a message for you.” He pushed a tight-folded square of paper toward Lestrade, to where his free hand lay on the counter top. Lestrade arched his palm up, and the paper slipped in, tickling the deep well of his palm, suggesting things to his mind that had no bearing on the moment or the issue at hand.

“Who from?” Lestrade asked.

The barkeep shrugged and looked away. “You’ll know.”

Lestrade nodded, and ordered a fresh pint, using the search for his wallet to disguise the act of hiding the little message. He’d read it later…when no one was watching.

There was a general shout from the pool room. Lestrade accepted the new pint, drinking deep, and looked over. Judging by motion and expression, Ginger Mike had just made a major gain in the ongoing game. The golden bull was angry, too—unprepared to be beaten by the agile orange tom. He pawed his feet and stalked restlessly, searching for a good shot of his own. Ginger Mike stepped back, leaning his spine against the paneled wood wall, hands holding his cue like a wizard’s staff. The butt was planted firm between his high-domed insteps, not reaching the floor but cradled between leather uppers. The tip, chalked a mysterious, haunting blue, hovered short of his chin. His mouth was pursed. His eyes were steady. He waited, patient as a cat at a mouse-hole.

Lestrade made himself study the rest of the room—forced himself to. Forced himself to notice how few of the regulars were there that night—all the men and women who’d once frequented the little pub but never aligned with any of the factions who called the place home. It was skin-heads and families, and hardly anyone else. He caught the barkeep’s eye, and asked, casually, “You seen Stev Bradley lately? I told him I’d let him know if I heard about a plumbing gig…”

The barkeep looked away uneasily. “Stev’s not been in often,” he said—then, more quietly—“It’s not really what it used to be here, you know? If you want to see the old gang, try the Quill and Inkwell. I hear people feel a bit easier there these days.” His eyes flicked back and forth—to the booths. To the pool room. “Been thinking of looking for work there myself.”

Lestrade grunted, unsure himself how perceptive he ought to be. Would “Nige” hear the unspoken truth—that the old pub had become a criminal den of late, driving away the more casual customers? Or would the barkeep’s ambiguous statement leave him bewildered?

He determined that, no matter what, Nige would scowl into his pint and hum a complicated hum of disapproval. Nige didn’t like change much—no. Not Nige. He liked things steady. He watched the footie game. He listened to the murmur of the pool game—the rise and fall of excitement as the two men contested with each other. The softer, more sibilant mutter of the men in the booth, planning.

A cheer rose up from the pool room at last, and the crowd broke up, clearing the room with an energy that almost suggested aversion—a need to leave the tension behind quickly, before it turned into a different sort of competition. The bull paced out, face barely containing rage, eyes flashing to Ginger Mike and back.

Lestrade was not entirely surprised when Ginger Mike made a large show of seeing him at the bar.  He was in that moment quite like Cheri—in need of a protector, or at least of some figure outside the drama to shelter behind. He beamed, eyes crinkling in delight and merriment. “There you are. Did you get my message?”

Lestrade nodded, hoping Ginger Mike meant a real message—the message now resting in his pocket. “Didn’t get a chance to look at it, though,” he said, pretending no surprise as Ginger Mike slipped into the spot beside him at the bar.

“No need,” Ginge said, still radiating pleasure. He lay a hand delicately on Lestrade’s wrist. “Since you’re still here, I can ask you myself. I’ve drunk a bit much and don’t quite trust myself to make it home alone, even on foot. Can you see me back safe to my flat? The way I’m feeling I’d tip myself into a trash skip by mistake without a carer to look after me.” He seemed to sway slightly, and he looked up at Lestrade with wide-blown blue eyes, looking for all the world like a flame-point Siamese cat—a slightly cross-eyed one.

Lestrade managed the put-out huff of a good bloke asked for a favor he’d as soon not give. Then he grunted agreement. “Yeah, ok. You owe me a round next time, though. Didn’t come ‘ere tonight to play minder to my favorite bookie.”

“You can tumble me looking for pounds and Euros.” His voice was a near purr, suggestive of too much, while in all ways he was—ambiguous. To Lestrade—to anyone watching. Was he merely drunk and a bit clingy—or was he gay, and trying to pull? It could go either way.

Lestrade, rising, hooked a strong hand under Mike’s elbow. “Yeah, yeah. Like I’m going to tumble a drunk,” he said. “And for money, at that. Come on—got to get you home before you get yourself into real trouble.” He gestured to the barkeep, asking if there was anything left to be paid on either of their tabs, and assured that there were not, he gathered his “charge” and dragged them both from the pub.

Mike leaned close, arm over Lestrade’s shoulder. “We’ve got to lose any tail,” he husked.

Lestrade grunted, then fished in his pocket, pulling out his mobile. He thumbed in Sally’s number. “Oi, Donovan,” he said when she picked up, “Need some help. Me an’ a mate are a bit drunk, in a part of town that’s a bit dodgy. Down in Southwark, near the river. Is there a chance in hell you can pick us up?”

“You’re kidding, right?” Her voice was incredulous—late-night rescues hardly being Lestrade’s usual thing.

“Fraid not,” he grunted, feeling Ginger lean into him. He gave the street address, and said, “Come down the street slow. We may be in shadow—but we’ll find you if you’re not too quick.”

 “Friend?” Mycroft asked, cutting in.

“My DS,” Lestrade said—then realized he’d never had cause to tell Mike he was a copper with the Met, or that he was a DI with a team of his own, or even that he worked for MI5—which he assumed Mike knew, but was not entirely sure about.

Mike swore. “If they realize I’m working with any of the official services, the game is over for sure,” he said. “Any way we can turn this to our advantage?”

Lestrade scowled, then said into the mobile, “Sal—we’re in a spot of trouble, and we need to look like Very Bad Boys indeed. Can you play along when you get here?”

“Does it mean I can tie you up with zip-strips?”

“Maaaaybe, you vicious child. See what you can figure out on the drive over. I’ll see what I can figure out, too. Less is more—bad boys is better than a six-car round-up and a bit of a scold may serve me better than being hauled in.”

They agreed with their basic approach—and hung up.

 

Lestrade cleared his throat, then. “Met officer when I’m not moonlighting as an MI5 undercover agent,” he said, under his breath, leaning close enough the sound should not carry if they were being followed. He felt the feathery tips of Ginger Mike’s hair brush his lips as the other man nodded.

“I know.”

“More than I can say about you.”

Ginger Mike chuckled. “How very clever of me to keep my secrets so well.”

“You’re a bit of a dick—you know that?”

“Oh, more than a bit…” Ginger Mike managed to make it a purred innuendo, and at the same time a confession—yes, he knew he was a bastard, and was both proud and remorseful.

Lestrade found the combined response sexy. But, then, he’d been tumbling into arousal for months, now, hadn’t he?

Mike felt as Lestrade had imagined him feeling: a beautiful blend of bone and muscle wrapped in what some would consider a layer or two more fat than was appealing. A stone over ideal? Two stone? Not much, but enough to turn their shared stumble down the street into an evocative act, muscles shifting and gliding as Mike wobbled forward, as his ribs flexed, as the muscles of his flank kept him upright. Hip raking against Lestrade’s. Both clinging—and how much was an act and how much was drunkenness on Mike’s part and arousal on Lestrade’s was anyone’s guess.

“Your aftershave is horrible,” Lestrade growled. It was—a dreadful, aggressive blend of scents all trying to apologize for any claim they had to beauty. It was as though someone had taken essence of lavender and attempted to convert it to essence of rubber tyres and burning petrol and heavy engine grease—something manly by the lights of an urban male of limited taste and creativity.

“I know, dreadful!” Mike laughed—a giggle that chimed in the dark streets, standing out against the sounds of traffic nearby. “I use it to scare off vermin in my pantry.”

“I believe it,” Lestrade said…and saw headlights approaching. He pulled Mycroft into a tiny walkway between two brick buildings in the row—barely wide enough to drag a garbage bin up, or push a pram down. “May be Sal,” he said. “May not be. We’ll stay here till we’re sure.”

“Mmmm.” Mike lay his head against Lestrade’s shoulder, face turned in to his collar bone. “Tell me when we know.” He rested, arms going around Lestrade with lazy, sleepy ease.

Lestrade could summon no answer at all—alight with the sense of being embraced. Instead he stood, frozen, heart thundering—no doubt announcing to Mike just how attracted he was.

The car approached. Lestrade frowned. By the pattern of the headlights he was sure it wasn’t Sal’s. He turned his face away, hiding pale skin from the lights, nose brushing into Mike’s hair.

Neither man moved as the car rolled by—too slowly.

“They’re looking for us,” Lestrade said.

“Yes.”

“Sal will be by soon. We just have to wait for her.”

“Yes.”

The tension was demanding…overwhelming. Neither moved—and, yet, in the stillness movement was implied. Lestrade knew exactly where Mike’s erection must stand—could have reached for it in the dark, palmed it through the natty, over-tailored trousers. He knew where Mike’s thigh lay—could have ridden it to crashing orgasm in seconds, leaving his own trousers a sodden mess to humiliate him the whole ride home with Sal.

“What’s going on?” he asked, to force his mind from desire. “With the gangs?”

“Major raid intended on Ramadan,” Mike said. There was a faint quaver in his voice that was heartbreakingly endearing—desire in check, but only barely in check. “I’ll tell you the truth—I wasn’t sure I was getting out of there this evening. I’m trusted—but not quite. And they’ve been pushing for more assurance than I can give. I need—backup. Something. Help. I was glad to see you.”

“And the note?”

“A plea for safe escort—and the times and dates and planned attacks if you could not. I wanted ot be sure someone got what I have so far.”

“So far?”

“Oh, they’re not done yet. The sons of bitches want to make a mark in the sand.  It’s all very dramatic and far too Little England for words.” He sounded a bit ill.

A car went by, but it wasn’t Sal.

Lestrade, almost without volition, slid one hand around Mike’s waist, coming to rest in the small of the other man’s back, pulling him close.

“I thought you were married.” The voice was too light—brittle. Fragile.

Lestrade sighed. “I am,” he said. “Not sure my wife ever understood the implied limits, though.”

“Ah.”

It lay there between them: a flaw large enough to almost justify a balancing action on their part. After all, he would not have broken his vow first, or even second, or third.

“Still,” Mike said.

“I know.”

Both sighed. Neither drew away.

“Tyres approaching,” Lestrade said, and risked a peek out. “Aye, that’s Sal.”

“You know, we’ll give her a better excuse—and our followers a better assumption—if they think we’ve gone in here for a bit of a snog,” Mike said, apologetic and unsure. “I mean—there’s more than one reason for a couple of men to hide down a dark walk—and for someone to roust them out.”

“Aye.” He flipped open the mobile and dialed Sal as she crept slowly down the street, searching.

“We’re in the little walkway to your left,” he said. “We’re going to pass ourselves off as a couple of poofs grabbing a bit of arse,” he said. “You wanna be my wife out looking for blood?”

She gave a grim laugh. “Can do.”

While she eased the car along, Lestrade and Mike mussed each other with a precise, businesslike efficiency that seemed entirely at odds with the tension that had risen mere minutes before. In spite of that, they still jumped guiltily when Sal leaned out the window and shouted, “Oi!, There you are, you shifty goddamn son of a bitch. Get your arse out of there, bastard!”

She veered the car close to the walk, and jetted out onto the pavement, already in full bellow, darting into the darkness and grabbing sleeves as she came. Then she hauled back—fierce and determined, winkling them from their sanctuary, swearing the whole time. It was no effort for Lestrade to put on a hangdog expression and a guilty slouch. Mike seemed similarly motivated to wave his arms in dismay and squall.

She rounded on Lestrade. “Shame on you. Shame. What’s mum going to think, eh?” Then she turned on Mike. “And you—no better than you should be. Go on—get in the back. Go on, I say. No—I want you where I can keep an eye on you, you creepin’ damn queen.” She pushed, and pushed, and scowled, and though it make little if any sense it all came together in a grand moment of exposed nerves and humiliated sinners. Sal bullied them both into the car, stood for a moment with her hands on her hips, scowling in furious victory, then she slipped into the driver’s seat and they were off.

They managed to all stay silent for at least ten minutes, as the car rumbled through cobblestone alleys and brick roadways. Sal was the one who broke, then, giggling—a soft, wicked giggle that mounted higher and higher, until she had to wail—at which Lestrade fell in with her, whooping. In the end even Mike couldn’t resist, chuckling with wicked amusement in the back seat.

“What the hell was that?” Sal asked, eventually.

“Hush-hush,” Mike said, seriousness competing with chuckles. “I mean it. A bit of undercover work for They Who Must Not Be Named.”

Sal whistled under her breath. “Whoa. Boss, you get in with the unmentionables? An honest copper like you?”

Lestrade shrugged. “Life is long,” he said, soberly. “A man can get drawn into things on occasion. And it’s not like I’m a stranger to undercover work. You know that.”

“For the Met, yeah. But it sounds like you’re moonlighting for the James Bond crowd.”

“Couldn’t tell you even if I were, Sal.”

She gave an annoyed huff. “It’s like that?”

“Quite,” Mike said from the back seat. “Not to suggest your help was not infinitely welcome. I may be able to arrange that you get a bit of a commendation for showing up in our hour of need—and playing such effective distraction at a moment’s notice. But…no. We can’t tell you anything more.”

She grumbled—but she was a good copper, and no fool. She did understand that some things were secret in good ways. Or at least necessary ways. She didn’t ask.

“Where to?” she said.

Lestrade, worried they were still followed, didn’t want them to follow him to his home—where his wife was occasionally in residence. Neither did he want them to follow him to Mike’s, though—unless Mike had a place he was meant to be followed to. He looked into the back seat.

“My brother has a place on Montague Street,” Mike said, with gloom that suited an Eeyore. “Best drop me there.”

“Me, too,” Lestrade said. “I’ll get a taxi to take me home from there.”

Sal’s eyes reflected a trained copper’s mind at work. She could already see they were further muddying their track. She nodded. “You think I should make sure to look out that there’s no tail when I go home?”

“I’m quite sure you should,” Lestrade said.

It was dead on midnight when Sal dropped them off.

They stood in the dark, on the pretty street of terraced brick houses—beautiful Georgian city architecture.

“Brother’s got money?” Lestrade asked.

Mike made a face. “In a sense,” he grumbled. “Let us say his people can afford to see him in better territory than he’d choose for himself.”

“Older brother?”

The sniff made it quite clear that, no—baby brother. Definitely baby brother. Lestrade found himself smiling.

“Pain in your arse?”

“Quite.”

“You’ll be safe here until you can call a cab?”

“I’ll be safe here until one of my people comes to pick me up. And you?”

“Cab to my safe-house with MI5. Let my people know what’s happening. From there to the Met, I suspect—unless I can convince my handler to call me in sick and give me a bit of a rest.”

They were silent.

“They may pull me off the case, now—we’ve been noticed.”

“Me, too.”

They both murmured inarticulate agreement.

Uneasily, Mike said, “Do you mind if I request you work with me again? I find the partnership…amenable.”

Lestrade considered.

The possibility seemed golden—infinite, happy, eternal. A race through Neverland. A pirate adventure. A fantasy lived out. He and Ginger Mike, two against the world, London their hunting ground, England their shared heroine—a damsel in distress to save and save again. He could imagine dinners spent unraveling mysteries, nights spent in the hunt, mornings laughing over full English fry-ups, sunny afternoons snogging in sexy secret, shivering with their own audacity.

He sighed. “No,” he said, reluctantly. Then, in lieu of explanation, he gripped the other man’s shoulders, pulled his head down, and kissed him, letting his hands wander as they pulled Mike closer.

Mike didn’t fight, but kissed back.

It was one of those kisses—the ones that hover between mystery and madness. It was tender and chaste, but promising lust verging on violence if it were ever set free. A faint note shivered, not quite voiced, as Mike suckled Lestrade’s tongue and slipped his knee between Lestrade’s thighs. Cock pushed against cock and rode hard against thighbone and muscle. They wrapped their arms around each other, hanging tight, sheltering, cherishing. And then…

They came to rest, unsatisfied, but also content.

“Can’t bring me in with that between us,” Lestrade murmured. “Not when I’m married. Not when we’ve got to work together.”

Ginger Mike nodded, and Lestrade, already swept up in bitter-sweet regret, reached out and ruffled his red fringe, leaving it lying in curled havoc on his forehead. Mike smiled, and said, “Perhaps, then, if I need a minder for my brother. He’d serve as chaperone for an incubus, if one were needed.”

“That bad?”

“Worse. With luck someday you’ll find out. Or, no—if you’re lucky you’ll be spared. But—it is an idea. I must find someone who can work with him someday.”

Lestrade shook his head. “Not a baby minder,” he said. “Cop and undercover agent is enough.”

Mike nodded, but with a mischievous glint in his eyes that suggested he had trouble planned already.

Lestrade shook his head, and dropped a kiss on the long ibis nose. “Don’t make problems,” he scolded, softly. “You’ll let me know if you need help clearing this up?”

Mike shrugged. “If they keep me on, the only thing you could really do is be seen with me a time or two to confirm to Our Boys at the Tart that we’re a wicked secret couple. It’s an answer they’ll understand, disapprove of, but fail to see as any threat to their own plans or my place in them.”

“I think that can be arranged.” Lestrade smiled. “I think it can even be explained to my wife and my Met team, if needed.”

They stood, then, knowing that the next thing they had to do was let go, draw back, and separate…for good.

It wasn’t easy.

The night air felt cold on Lestrade’s belly as he moved away, letting his lover go—and in his mind, Mike was his lover. As surely as he’d come to understand that his wife was not his wife, he knew that Mike was his lover in spite of all lack of actual intercourse.

He touched Mike’s lips. “Beautiful,” he said, softly, then turned away and started walking, already pulling out his mobile to call a taxi.

“Good bye,” Mike called, behind him.

He looked over his shoulder, eyes meeting Mike’s. It was perfect. Pure. Secure. Unchanging. “Goodbye,” he called back. “Think of me, sometimes.”

“Always.”

They both nodded.

And then Lestrade walked away, and called the taxi, and was picked up.

And then they returned to their rightful work and places.

MI5 and MI6 announced a great victory during Ramadan that coming year: the defeat of a conspiracy to devastate London’s Islamic communities—bombs, raids, murderous attacks, a British Krystallnacht intended to reduce mosques, community centers, schools, homes, businesses to rubble—and lives to shattered scraps of torn meat and ground bone.

When the announcement was made, there was no sign of Mike. Lestrade was not surprised. You do not waste your undercover operatives by plastering their faces on the telly. No doubt Mike had walked all the stages his fellow conspirators walked, seeming to escape trial and imprisonment on lucky but plausible grounds. He would disappear again.

Lestrade didn’t even need that much.

The wheels of espionage would roll on.

And so it happened that one day the story of Ginger Mike and Lestrade rolled onward, too, complete with junkie baby brother and a need that swept Lestrade away…

And after that?

After the wife was gone, and the baby brother more or less sorted out into being a good man as well as a great man?

All Lestrade would ever say was that it started on the pavement of Montague Street—and never actually ended in all the years after.

He always said it with the sweetest smile.


End file.
